The Rotting Room

Chapter One

Sister Rafaela

A scream bubbled in my throat like bile as I stared into the face of a rotting Sister. Her black, withered eyes, her brown teeth jutting from shriveled lips, the yellow-gray paper of her flesh, so mottled it looked burned—I had never before seen something so gruesome, even during my time with the Rafaelites, which I sincerely hoped to forget. I made the sign of the cross, shuddering.

Sister Rafaela, Mother Superior said, her tone authoritative. It sliced right through my terror, my breath dying in my throat. Her face was weathered and mapped with deep wrinkles, and she seemed to look down on me, even though she was considerably shorter. I must acquaint you with this chamber, seeing as your Rafaelites, to my knowledge, do not incorporate this practice.

I pulled in another breath to respond, but Mother Superior put up a gnarled hand to stop me. I glanced frantically around the room, which was cavelike and warm, moist with the pungent smell of death, and lit by candelabra mounted into niches in the rock. The low light illuminated the rough stone chairs, only one of which was occupied, lining three of the four walls. Each chair was bordered by heavy stone armrests and contained a large void in its seat, like a privy. Sister, this is the chamber of divine decomposition for the Sisters of Divine Innocence. We bring our dead here to complete the cycle of their earthly lives. In this room, we can pray and encourage them as they begin their ascents into Heaven to be with God the Father Almighty. Her dark eyes glittered with something that could have been rapture or ferocity.

I crossed myself again. My hands felt jittery, like the butterflies that used to flit around the garden of the Rafaelite abbey where I dwelt before the trouble happened. The dead Sister’s face held my gaze with defiance. Her mouth was open, as if she were yawning—or screaming.

A drip-drop broke the silence, and my entire body convulsed.

Oh, one more thing, Mother Superior said, as if sensing my discomfort. As the divine spark leaves the bodies of our beloved Sisters, so, too, do their bodily liquids.

Acid rose in my throat in place of a scream this time, but once again, I swallowed hard against it.

Mother Superior continued, We collect this holy essence.

There was a beat of uncomfortable quiet. When my voice finally emerged from between my lips, it was squeaky. For what purpose?

Mother Superior smiled, and her teeth looked sharp in the low light flickering from the candelabras. It erases sin, she said.

Before I had time to respond, Mother Superior turned swiftly on one heel, heading for the small doorway. When I began to follow, she held up one wrinkled palm.

Do not follow me, Sister. This is your first night, and you must pay your respects to Sister Faustina. She gestured to the withered figure on the stone chair. You must become acquainted more intimately with the customs of the Sisters of Divine Innocence. You have missed the evening meal, so you must pray here with Sister Faustina until matins. After that, one of the Sisters will show you to your cell.

The triple toll of the bells, which coordinated every facet of our lives, punctuated her orders. Our recreational time was over. In my terror, I briefly forgot myself, forgot my vow of silence that went into effect during all hours of the day except for our one hour of recreation, our time in the confessional booth, and our few spoken prayers during services.

But Mother— I blurted, unsure of what I could possibly say to allow me to follow her out of that room, away from the rotting husk of Sister Faustina.

She silenced me with a hard stare and a sharp shake of her head. Without another word, she turned on her heel and slipped through the door, closing it behind her.

A sickening panic constricted my chest as I stood near the entrance, my eyes locked on Sister Faustina. I shivered, even though the chamber held an unpleasant warmth. The scents of char and ash filled the air, as well as something passably sweet, like pressed flowers crumbled to dust. In that moment, I acutely longed for my old abbey in which I had lived with the Rafaelites, the only home I’d known since my birthplace, back in Barcelona—despite the horrors that had befallen me there.

The Sisters of Divine Innocence had agreed to take me in, even though they must have known about the trouble with the Rafaelites, the way the abbess had perverted the rituals of God. Finding a new home to continue my spiritual work had surely been evidence of God’s mercy. I needed to be grateful. God had given me the chance to find my way back to Him. Squandering that chance would be the gravest of sins.

I took one small step toward Sister Faustina, my hands clasped in prayer. Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

The drip-drop sound filled the room again. The dull grain of a wooden bucket, underneath the chair and behind Sister Faustina’s shriveled, blackened feet, came into view in the low light. I fought the gorge that threatened to rise up into my throat yet again. My stomach no longer rumbled with hunger.

Such a thing as a chamber of divine decomposition was entirely new to me. I did not feel bathed in holiness as I moved closer to Sister Faustina, but I knew I needed to do as Mother Superior instructed. I shook with fear just thinking of disobeying her, of seeing her dagger-sharp eyes pointed at me, like blades quivering and ready to strike.

My knees popped as I knelt in front of Sister Faustina, a crackling sound that reminded me I was alive. Sister Faustina would never hear her knees pop again.

I closed my eyes and reached out one trembling hand. My fingers alighted on a papery stretch of flesh. Sister Faustina’s skin was cold despite the warmth of the room, and the pressure of my touch released an animal smell that reminded me of my father’s farm outside of Barcelona.

Before additional thoughts could set my blood to rushing again, I grasped the corpse’s spindly hand in mine. She felt so delicate, so vulnerable.

There I stayed, gripping the dead Sister’s hand, sending silent prayers to God the Father and thinking about the series of occurrences that had led me to this moment, to this stagnant room. Rosary beads slipped through my sweaty fingers, one after another, until the bells tolled again and a knock on the door startled me out of my trance.

The knock announced the Sister designated to gather us all for matins, aptly named the Caller. As I followed her out through the narrow doorway and into the church, I looked back at Sister Faustina. I wiped my sweaty hand on my white scapular, leaving a black smear, and stared into her empty skull, her eyes having dripped out of her body some time ago. I searched and searched, but there was no holiness to be found there.

Chapter Two

Sister Rafaela

If the Caller found my presence in the chamber of divine decomposition odd, she did not show it. Perhaps my initiation was a matter of routine, something all new Sisters experienced. There was some comfort in that feeling of solidarity, and I leaned into it like a beggar grasping for a crust of discarded bread.

The Caller padded quietly past the altar of the church, and I followed. My feet felt heavy, as though I were wearing leaden slippers. I turned back just once, the thought of Lot’s salt-encrusted wife springing to the forefront of my mind. The small, pointed door to the right of the altar still reached out for me, its particular scent following me like a curse.

I was so entranced by the beauty of the church, with its gilded cornices and lush red velvet pews, that it took me a moment to notice the sea of heads bowed in prayer in front of me. It being the middle of the night, the Caller remained silent as she led me to an empty seat in the pews. The Rafaelites had practiced silence as well, but not like this. In this abbey, silence was almost tangible, its virtue irreproachable. The Rafaelites had spoken when necessary; it seemed as though the Sisters of Divine Innocence failed to speak even when necessary. It would take time for me to adjust, of course.

As I nervously settled into my seat, I stole a glance at the Caller. She was far taller than Mother Superior, with a brusque liveliness. My mind formed a picture of her face, which I expected to be round and lovely with youth and God’s light.

That was not so.

When a shaft of moonlight through the windows illuminated her visage for the briefest of moments, what I saw framed by her veil was jarring. Silvery, still-healing scars, made brighter in the white light, crisscrossed the features of her face like rivers on a merchant’s map. Between the healing knots of skin were great red, raw patches. Pity overwhelmed my heart, and I looked away. What unfortunate circumstance must have befallen the Sister? I sent a quick prayer to God for her, and comforted myself with the reminder that her suffering only brought her closer to God. In a way, perhaps she was even more fortunate than the unscarred.

The Caller moved quickly into her own pew, joining the rest of the Sisters of Divine Innocence. I looked around me, expecting puzzled stares but receiving nothing. They must have known of my arrival, for they all remained as they were, heads bowed, immobile as statues.

We prayed in silence. Back in Barcelona, the Rafaelites had held matins, too, but everything felt different here. That is what I wanted—to feel different, to look different, to be different. The Rafaelites had never been the right fit for me, but my father’s warm friendship with the Archbishop of Barcelona had dictated my life since before I could speak. Archbishop Orriva believed the Rafaelites would suit me just fine, and the abbey desperately needed the money my father would donate for the Order’s acceptance of his daughter. That exchange should have been a dark omen from the beginning: a holy order placing such high esteem on gold, making it outshine the spiritual enlightenment we were there to achieve. We were not closer to God because we had heavy golden chalices or solid silver pitchers. We were not holier because we knelt on cushions filled with the finest goose down, or because we slept on soft mattresses in comfortable, well-appointed rooms. Despite my privileged upbringing, I had never cared much for material things, preferring instead to look to God and live modestly.

Studying the church more closely, with its gilt and velvet, I grew even more uneasy. Had I been rescued from one sinful situation only to be thrust, unknowingly, into another?

I tried to refocus my treacherous thoughts and concentrate on my prayer, but my mind kept wandering into the past, a lonely traveler. I trusted my father, I trusted Archbishop Orriva, and I trusted God the Father, but the Rafaelites had fallen away from God’s light. I had always thought Abbess Cecelia Maria had understood God’s requirements of us, but when the sacrifices began, something soured in my heart. What could I say? Where could I go? Abbess Cecelia Maria knew what God wanted. I followed along despite my misgivings, because I knew I was just a poor sinner throwing myself on God’s mercy. I did not know better than the abbess, and to think so would have been to break my vow of obedience and stink of pride.

When Archbishop Orriva finally visited the Rafaelite abbey after a long absence, he saw how Abbess Cecelia Maria had perverted and twisted the will of God. She had blood on her hands, as did we all. Archbishop Orriva, his face a mask of horror, had banished the abbess and many of the Sisters. I do not know what became of them, and I do not wish to know.

Archbishop Orriva spared me excommunication, by the grace of God. He recommended the Sisters of Divine Innocence instead, in this abbey atop the hill where I now prayed. I trusted the Archbishop—he must have had some insight into God’s plan for me, so I knew I must acclimate myself to this isolated place, this place where Sisters knelt before their own dead to be closer to the Almighty.

The bells tolled, and I whispered a prayer to God for my wandering mind—O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee. The Sisters filed out of the church and through the doors, and Mother Superior silently directed me to follow the scarred Sister yet again. Without a word, she led me through the cloister, where the wind howled through the bare, peeling trees and set me to shivering. My hand still felt sticky where I had touched the rotten, greasy skin of Sister Faustina.

A stone doorway rose out of the darkness, and the scarred Sister stepped through it. Once inside, the coldness of the dormitory floor seeped through my thin slippers, and I fought to control my complicated feelings—I missed the warmth of the Rafaelite abbey, but I also knew that warmth came only from the Devil and his hell-fires, which had infiltrated the Rafaelites like a plague.

Rows of small stone cells passed by on my left and right; they looked different from the cells I had left behind in Barcelona—more austere, more appropriate. A smile of relief spread across my face as I walked. Finally, the scarred Sister stopped in front of an open door and waved me inside. The low light did her scars no favors, turning her pleasant expression into an impossibly gruesome smirk.

The room held a thin straw mattress upon a wooden bed frame, a narrow table, and a chair. A large earthen jug of water sat atop the table near a shallow basin, and when I caught sight of it, my thirst ignited. I turned to nod gratefully at the scarred Sister, but she was gone, having closed the door of my cell without making a sound.

Despite the exhaustion of my travel, the anxiety that had grown within me since meeting Mother Superior, and spending so many long, dark hours in the chamber of divine decomposition, my eyes were wide open, and my mind raced. Unwanted images of my past flickered through my thoughts—first the bloodied nanny goat stretched out upon the altar, then the milk cow gutted from neck to tail, finally, the—no. I couldn’t let my thoughts drift too far into that dark place. The Rafaelites were best left behind. It was time to embrace God’s plan for me in this new abbey, which was so far from the corrupting influences of the city. I would fully recommit myself to my vows here and now, and God would grant me easy rest for my fidelity.

I took several sips from the jug, slaking my thirst. A nightgown had been laid out for me atop my bed, and a smile of gratitude lifted the corners of my mouth. I stepped out of my habit, which held the smells of my long journey, as well as the chamber. I peeled off my scapular, stained with remnants of Sister Faustina, and removed my veil, coif, and tunic. With eager hands, I hoisted the nightgown into the air and up over my shorn head, where my cold, nervous sweat had begun to dry. As the nightgown slipped past my nose, I recoiled. That smell was familiar—slightly sweet, with a rotten core, like a bad apple.

Like Sister Faustina.

I was unable to choke back my bile; I gagged uselessly, bent over double, struggling to be sick in silence. Finally, a thin stream of yellow saliva dripped from my lips. Perhaps missing the evening meal had been a blessing from God—I could contain myself, at least somewhat. It wouldn’t be prudent to make a mess of myself now, just as I was settling in to my new home.

What I was now sure was Sister Faustina’s nightgown was soft and worn from years of use. The fabric was thin and almost bare around the elbows and knees, and I couldn’t help imagining the nightgown draping over her emaciated body as she drew her last breath.

Hail Mary, full of grace.

Anger at my own ingratitude blossomed behind my eyes. How selfish was I to be repulsed by a gift of charity the Sisters had bestowed upon me? God provided for me through his agents on earth, and I must be grateful. Did I expect a newly sewn gown of velvet, perhaps edged in golden thread? Did I expect freshly woven cloth, just for me? My own greed was emerging; I had been as yet unable to purge it, even though I thought I had left it far behind me. I needed to try harder; perhaps wearing Sister Faustina’s gown would expand my capacity for humility and empathy.

I lay down on the thin mattress. It accepted my weight by emitting a puff of air, which held the same fragrance as the nightgown. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, trying to find the grace in the scent of a holy life well lived instead of ignorant disgust. Behind my eyelids, Sister Faustina’s empty skull stared into me from the darkness. I wondered if Archbishop Orriva knew about the chamber of divine decomposition, if he was privy to any secrets that weighed heavy on his heart. With my fingers pressed to my temples, I squeezed the uncomfortable questions out of my head. My new life could not begin with doubts creeping into my mind, doubts which were insidious and damning. I would not break my vow of obedience, and if Mother Superior deemed the chamber holy and good, then it was. I needed to place my trust in those who knew better.

I was still performing penance for my unwitting but unholy sinning with the Rafaelites, and I refused to add anything more to my burden. In fact, I would visit the chamber of divine decomposition often, to familiarize myself with its purpose, its smell, its feel. I would search, and I would find the holiness that lived there. I would find my way back into God’s good graces.

The wind howled as I drifted to sleep. I felt calm and peaceful, happy in my decision to uphold my vows with vigor.

That night, Sister Faustina crept into my dreams. Her empty eyes blinked, her dry jaw clicked, and her skeletal hands beckoned, shedding snowfalls of dead flesh when her fingers rubbed together.

I thanked God the Father when the bells awoke me a short while later for morning duty, putting an end to my interminable first night with the Sisters of Divine Innocence.

Chapter Three

Sister Rafaela

I washed my face in the basin and dressed quickly. When I opened the door of my cell, the scarred Sister was standing there in the hallway of the dormitory, her creased face expressionless. I bowed my head in deference, and the Sister turned swiftly on one heel and walked away. She must have intended for me to follow her, so I hurried to match her pace. The other Sisters were emerging from their cells, many clutching golden candleholders, the flickering light making their faces seem ghoulish.

O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee. It would not do to have such superstitious thoughts crowding my mind, nor to let my eyes trick me into seeing unholiness where none existed.

The scarred Sister, with me at her heels, walked outside, through the cloister, and turned into a small structure I had not noticed the evening before. The building was made of a hard, blistered wood, and reminded me of a house I had seen in Barcelona as a child that had burned; after the fire had spent itself, the home was a charred husk, blackened and evil-looking. All who had lived there had been burned alive.

No, no, I was getting carried away again—there was no evil in this place. I tried to assure myself that everything at the abbey of the Sisters of Divine Innocence was holy, but the notion felt hollower the more I pushed, so I stopped. Instead, I distracted myself by staring at the uneven stones lining the cloister, counting how many paces it took to reach that black building, which perched like a raven on the hill.

Without turning around, the scarred Sister entered the building. I followed.

The smell hit me immediately. I recognized it instantly, for it clung to my own skin from my night with Sister Faustina—the sickly sweetness, the rotten undercurrent. I looked up and around, trying desperately to find the source of the stench. All I could see were shelves upon shelves of small glass bottles, each filled with a brown-green liquid. The color reminded me of my neighbor Josef Querida’s well-water, which was undrinkable ever since his fattest sow fell through the wooden covering and was left to rot at the bottom. There was no easy way to remove the detritus of death, no matter how hard one might try.

The glass, though—so much of it! I’d never dreamed one place could contain such an abundance of something so scarce and expensive. If I had not been already aware of the abbey’s wealth, the almost ostentatious display of glass was irrefutable proof. The abbey may have played at modesty, but that was belied by this display. Whatever was inside those bottles must be enormously valuable to be worth the glass needed to encase it.

Straight ahead were two rows of long wooden tables, which stretched almost the entire length of the room. Empty glass bottles were crowded in the center of the tables, along with piles of corks and several funnels. Wooden buckets had been placed at intervals on the floor. The ceilings arched high overhead, higher than I would have imagined from the outside. Everything was dark despite the freshly lit candles perched on every available surface. The profusion of flames seemed irresponsible given the building’s charred exterior. One would think those candles had caused problems in the past.

There were others in the room, too—other Sisters. Their faces were cast in shadow from their veils, and they glanced up only briefly as I entered with the scarred Sister before returning to their work.

The scarred Sister seated herself on a bench at one of the tables, and gestured for me to do the same. She did not say anything, it being our time of silence, but I knew she meant for me to join in the work. I watched her intently as she hefted a wooden bucket from the floor to the table. She placed a small funnel into the open mouth of a glass bottle and plucked a heavy-looking ladle from within the bucket. Delicately, she dipped the ladle into the bucket, filling it completely, then tipped it toward the funnel, stopping at the precise moment when the little bottle would take no more of the green-brown liquid. She replaced the ladle in the bucket and stoppered the glass bottle with a cork before pushing it to the side and repeating the process again—all without spilling a single drop.

I took a seat at the bench opposite her; I could smell a similar wooden bucket at my feet. My duty was clear.

I set to my work reluctantly, praying to God the Father to guide my hands. Despite my prayers, my hands trembled, for I knew that particular smell that permeated every bit of this black cavern that felt far too much like the interior of some scavenger’s hungry stomach. My time in the chamber of divine decomposition had embedded the stench in my memory forever, but surely there was another explanation for the provenance of the brown-green liquid. I scolded myself for my curiosity; if I was meant to know, then I would be told. Still, I wondered if this liquid was indeed that ‘holy essence’ collected in the chamber of divine decomposition, and why it was being bottled so. It was clearly very valuable… perhaps because, as Mother Superior had insisted, it erased sin? This did not make much sense to me—only God the Father had the power to erase our sins—but I hoped that after the evening meal I could ask one of the Sisters, if it was in God’s plan for me to do so. Until then, I would be silent.

Silence did not trouble me. Throughout my childhood in Barcelona, I had always followed my older brother Sebastian, mostly without question. Where he went, I went—or at least tried desperately to follow. When he gave me a task, I performed it without complaint. Sebastian had my father’s trust, while I had my father’s heart. We both knew and accepted this fact about our little family, which would have been bigger had our five younger siblings not died in infancy. Mother had named them all, and Archbishop Orriva had completed the baptisms before each was interred in the family crypt. Mother could not bear the thought of not being reunited with her babies in Heaven. It was that desperation, more than the fear of eternal damnation, that powered Mother’s religiosity. She might not have recognized this fault of hers, but it was always so clear to me, even more so after I received a convent education. I tried not to pity her, and instead demonstrated my filial love by praying for her soul whenever I could.

My hands quit their trembling, and I grew accustomed to the task before me, filling bottles as swiftly as the other Sisters. I had always been good with my hands; I had helped my brother build a small fort on our land, at least until my Father put a stop to it, telling me that working like that would roughen my fingers and was unbecoming for a lady of my status. I did not really understand what that meant at the time, but I did